The Waters of April
by frustratedstudent
Summary: In which a poet goes on a trip with his muse, exploring another side of a city in Southeast Asia. Modern day verse


_A/N: Dedicated to everyone who has the travel bug. This is part of the modern day Manila verse. I do not own this pair, they belong to Hugo. They are merely skipping through a travel journal of mine. _

**The Waters of April**

_2013_

I.

Suvarnabhumi Airport is the biggest airport that Jehan has ever seen. According to his friends it has nothing on Heathrow, Dulles or other great terminals around the globe, but it is vast enough to have him looking around with an agog expression on his face, one hand clutching his passport and the other his huge purple travel backpack.

At any rate the airport is big enough to have him worrying he'll lose Azelma in the crowd. Amazingly she's the one calling for him to keep up as they make their way past the immigration desk. "Come on! If we're not out by two in the morning, they won't hold our room at the hostel!" she hollers over the crowd.

"I'll call them, don't worry," Jehan says as he brings out his phone to check if the roaming service has already been activated. He groans as he looks at the clock that reads one in the morning; every cell in his body is still screaming for Manila time, four hours ahead. He blinks blearily at Azelma, wondering how she can still have so much energy despite not having slept throughout their flight. She's a conundrum; this little lady with a big bag, a raven haired sprite eager to take in the air of a faraway land.

II.

It's why Jehan asked her, and no one else, to join him for this trip to Bangkok for the famous _Songkran_. It is not that her siblings or their friends would make horrible travel companions; on the contrary he cannot imagine anything merrier than the entirety of their pseudo-family running around this metropolis. However none of them can move from silent reverence to festive exuberance the way the younger Thenardier girl does, and no one else in the world has such a quiet but curious light in her dark eyes.

Within an hour they are out of the airport and in a taxi bound for Hua Lamphong, one of the older districts in Bangkok. It's not a swanky neighborhood, but it's within walking distance of the metro train station as well as the provincial railway line. Their accommodations are so cramped such that there is hardly enough space for the twin beds, a closet, and a mini-bar. Azelma laughs when Jehan almost runs into the wall while trying to find someplace to stash their bags. He gives her a miffed look but laughs anyway and is perfectly fine with stowing their bags on one bed while they both share the other.

This is why she agreed to go with him; he has a way of turning these little mishaps into stories worth telling.

III.

They only have three days in this city. It's the only time they can squeeze out from this busy summer. Back at home their friends are caught up in politics, summer classes, jobs, and other whatnot. They will get back to all of that eventually. For now they just need to breathe and be wild once more.

Indeed they are wild as they meander through the city, sometimes catching the metro train, and other times flagging down one of those open cabs called _tuk-tuks_. One such conveyance sets them down in the street market outside the Grand Palace, where hawkers and kiosks show off mountains of fruit, bags of dried spices, trays of amulets, and a plethora of other curios and tourist traps.

An amulet seller winks at Jehan. "Have one, to protect you."

He shakes his head. "I'm not into that." Part of him wants to acquire one of these little medallions to give to one of his more scholarly friends like Combeferre, but he hesitates to appropriate meaning for the sake of curiosity.

The vendor nods on seeing how Jehan pauses. "What about for good luck? Your good fortune, this New Year."

Jehan glances towards where Azelma is buying some dried spices. Her fingers skillfully pick out _kaffir _limes, quinces, chilis, cardamoms, turmeric, saffron, and various herbal teas. It is as if she is guided by a knowing that encompasses her five senses. Whatever it is, Jehan can be sure he will be delighted by the results when they go home to Manila and experiment with their finds.

He feels the seller nudging his elbow. "Thanks, but I think I have all the luck I need," he finally says.

IV.

"He's a model, isn't he?"

It takes Azelma two seconds to realize that the park tour guide is referring to Jehan. "Only sometimes, when he poses for my sketches," she says candidly. "Not professional."

"Too bad," the guide says, pursing her lips appreciatively. "He could make a lot of money."

Azelma laughs as she watches Jehan climb up the steep steps to the entrance of the _wat_. Unlike other tourists, who enter this sacred space talking too loudly and leaving a trail of litter behind them, Jehan approaches the shrine reverently, with head bowed and his camera kept out of sight. He does not subscribe to the ways of Buddhism, but he is not one to denigrate this form of worship. It is clear he is no worshipper, but the monks do not look at him as a stranger as he gazes on the dazzling statues and artworks of these temples, and even gives a small offering of a new robe during one of the afternoon ceremonies.

Before they leave the temple another attendant asks if they will allow him to pour some water on them as part of the _Songkran_ rituals. "What is it supposed to be for?" Azelma inquires curiously.

"Passing on the blessings," the attendant explains.

Azelma nods and lets him pour water from a tiny glass bowl onto her shoulder. The liquid is permeated with the sweet smells of jasmine and perhaps a hint of incense. She breathes deeply as she meets Jehan's smile, knowing that in this moment she wants for nothing in this world.

V.

That evening, their last in Bangkok they go downtown to Silom Street to take part in the biggest water fight in the city. The scene here is frenetic, unlike the serenity and majesty of the _wats_ and palaces. Here, tourists and residents mingle in a drenched throng, dancing at shopfrontts and spraying water at literally anything with a face. A foam machine covers the street in bubbles and the district fire department joins in the fun by training hoses on the crowd at intervals all along the avenue.

Azelma shrieks with laughter when she sees Jehan come up to her with his fingers daubed in wet white clay. "Jehan don't you dare!" she yells as she upends her water bottle on him.

He sputters for a moment as he shakes his sodden hair out of his eyes but still manages to pull her to him, leaving white streaks and gobs all over her skin. "Not even for good luck?" he asks.

She shakes her head before getting some of the clay to write their initials across his forehead. She kisses his cheek when he blushes under her hand. "We've already made our luck."


End file.
